Slush

I'm never really in a rush
To traipse through gushy, mushy slush
Like that on any city street
Where puddles form from melting sleet.

The passing traffic sends up sprays
Of wetness that's seen better days
To splatter on your favorite coat
(And splash avoidance seems remote).

So in your boots, just stride on through
And do what all New Yorkers do,
Which is to shrug or maybe kvetch
'Til we complete this slushy stretch.